Exposure
by ash the airbender
Summary: Flatmates as close as Sherlock and John are pretty much destined to eventually see each other naked, but perhaps it happens more often than should be expected in a supposedly platonic relationship. The progression of Sherlock and John's relationship told through 6 times they saw each other in various states of undress. (Johnlock)
1. Heat

**Exposure**

_A/N: A short Johnlock story that will probably consist of a few short chapters. I'm still relatively new to writing Johnlock, so any compliments or criticism would be welcome. Please inform me of any spelling or grammar mistakes._

**1: Heat**

Life with Sherlock is, in many aspects, an all-or-nothing deal. Clothes are no exception.

When he does decide to wear clothes, Sherlock is always impeccably dressed, complete with his trademark trench coat and scarf (sometimes even in the summer, if he can get away with it without risking heatstroke). And of course, John isn't the only one who is familiar with Sherlock's tendency to go without trousers if he doesn't deem it worth the effort.

That being said, it is a particularly hot day in summer when John walks downstairs to find the flat seemingly empty: odd, on a weekend, considering that, if Sherlock even bothers to sleep at all, he almost always does so on the sofa, and usually wakes before John.

He must, then, have gone out. John shrugs, not thinking much of it. If it was something important, Sherlock certainly would not have hesitated to rudely wake John at any hour of the morning. The man doesn't really understand the need for boundaries.

So John makes himself coffee and settles in to read the paper, which Sherlock leaves out for him every morning. An hour ticks lazily by, and then two. John is lost in the words he's reading and the lazy lull of the summer heat. Even though he isn't particularly invested in the story, John has nothing better to do that doesn't involve figuring out where Sherlock has got to, and John isn't sure he's up for that yet. It's still early.

However, when afternoon rolls around, John begins to worry, or at least becomes curious, as to Sherlock's whereabouts. He reaches for his phone, sitting on the table, and texts his flatmate, just a brief, "_Where are you?_"

Moments later:

"_In my room. SH_"

John's eyebrows shoot up. He pockets his phone, folds up the newspaper neatly, and sets it on the table by his empty mug. Sherlock, in his room? That's a rarity. And he's being so quiet… John is almost afraid to find out what Sherlock's been doing. He hasn't gone this long without bothering John in… Well, he's _never_ gone this long without bothering John. Not as long as John has known him.

John's been living with Sherlock so long that he thinks Sherlock's lack of propriety might be starting to rub off on him. He doesn't even think to knock before barging into Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock, it's nearly lunch; do you want me to make you—?" John cuts off when he sees Sherlock, lying on his stomach on his bed, reading something on his (not John's, for once) laptop, wearing nothing but his pants.

John shifts on his feet and raises a skeptical eyebrow. It's certainly hot enough to justify Sherlock's attire, which is probably why he's not surprised. He is surprised, however, that Sherlock was considerate enough not to go strolling around the flat like this. He's certainly never shown any sign of having such qualms before now. But John doesn't say anything on that particular subject, because if Sherlock is finally deciding to show a little decorum around others, John certainly isn't going to be the one to get in his way.

Even though John really doesn't mind so much if Sherlock wants to stroll around the flat naked. (Maybe he _should_ mind… He's not going to think about that.)

"You could turn on a fan, you know," John remarks. Sherlock turns to face John, giving the doctor a generous view of his pale, thin torso. John crosses his arms over his chest and his eyebrow climbs even closer to his hairline. "Have you been in here all morning?" he asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says. "And as for the fan," he shrugs, "Mine won't work."

"Could've lent you mine."

"I figured you'd be using it."

The corner of John's mouth quirks up. "I can take the heat, Sherlock," he says, already turning to exit the room. "I served in Afghanistan."

He leaves the door to Sherlock's room wide open, thinking a bit of a breeze between the rooms might help Sherlock cope with the heat. Instead of returning to his position on the sofa, John goes to the kitchen and starts on lunch for him and his flatmate. They aren't in the middle of a case, so John can probably get Sherlock to eat something, if he can find enough food in the kitchen that isn't being used for an experiment to throw together a suitable excuse for a meal.

As John is raiding the kitchen cabinets for food, if his mind keeps returning to the image of Sherlock stretched out all invitingly on his bed, hardly wearing any clothes, just so much skin presented like a pure white canvas in the moments before the artist makes his first brushstroke, well… John's only human, and he hasn't gotten any action in a while, besides.


	2. Scars

**Exposure**

_A/N: Again, please inform me of any spelling or grammar mistakes. This one's Sherlock perspective… We'll see how this goes._

**2: Scars**

Sherlock isn't one for worry. Not normally. But the circumstances under which he finds himself and, more importantly, John are anything but normal and more than enough to make Sherlock worry.

He insists on leading John up the stairs to their flat and sitting him down on the sofa, despite John's efforts to convince him otherwise.

"I'm fine," John insists, even as Sherlock is determinedly rounding up medical supplies to tend to the doctor. "It's only a flesh wound. The knife barely broke skin. I've seen much worse." John attempts a smile, but Sherlock isn't listening, so instead, John heaves a sigh and allows Sherlock to pull his jumper over his head.

Sherlock hardly pays attention to anything else as he forces John to turn so he can get a look at John's injury. He breathes a sigh of relief when he discovers that John was right; it's nothing serious. It bled like hell but seems to have stopped, surrounded by sticky, dark, dried blood that also stains John's jumper.

John swears when he sees the large, dark red splotch. "That was my favorite jumper," he says. Sherlock looks up at him, his hard, determined mask finally cracking enough for him to roll his eyes.

"That jumper deserved to be burned," Sherlock says, dabbing at John's wound with a warm, wet cloth. John turns to glare at Sherlock over his shoulder, then winces. Sherlock pauses, looks up, and his eyes momentarily widen.

He didn't notice when he was too focused on the possibility that John was seriously hurt, but now that Sherlock knows the injury is nothing to be worried about, he can't believe he missed it.

Sherlock never thought much of it before, but now that it occurs to him, he's been living with John for over a year now, yet this is the first time he's seen John without a shirt.

John seems to realize this at the same moment that Sherlock does, and reaches frantically for his discarded jumper, making an effort to pull it back over his head. Sherlock stops him with a hand on his back, and for a moment marvels at how warm John is. He squints his eyes, curious, and lifts John's jumper up and out of the way.

"I'm not finished," he says lowly. John exhales and turns again to face forward, but there's more tension in his back now, like he's poised to jump to his feet and flee.

Under the pretence of continuing to clean the bloody slash on John's lower back, Sherlock lets his eyes roam all over John's exposed skin, taking everything in. Normally Sherlock can look at a person and observe and catalogue their every detail in seconds, and he could probably do that with John. For some reason, though, he wants to take it slowly this time, almost as if he's afraid he'll miss something, some vital detail that adds up with all the other vital details to create one whole, warm, wonderful John.

Sherlock shakes his head and wonders when he got so sentimental.

John's got scars, loads of them, so much so that in places they connect together to form a map of imperfections across John's back. Sherlock wipes the last of the blood away, reaches up with his free hand toward the largest scar, the one on his shoulder from the war. Sherlock's hand hovers there for what feels like ages, not quite touching, but he can feel John's warmth radiating form his skin.

"Are you done?"

John's voice jolts Sherlock out of what felt like a trance; he practically jumps back, his hand going down at his side.

"Yes," he says, his voice quiet as he stands. John quickly pulls his jumper on and leaves the room. Sherlock doesn't see his face even though he watches John leave, but he hears him exhale a pained breath and sees him run a hand through his hair.

Sherlock's eyebrows draw together in a rare expression of confusion. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and drops the wet, bloody cloth in the sink.

Sherlock expects John to reemerge from his room after changing his shirt, but apparently John would rather be alone. Despite his own boredom, Sherlock doesn't bother John. He nearly got John stabbed today, and he doesn't want to push any limits.

He doesn't see John again for the rest of the day.


	3. Towel

**Exposure**

_A/N: Back to John POV, with which I am far more comfortable. I won't pretend this is going to be my best Johnlock fic, and I'm not totally pleased with this chapter, but I can only expect so much from a first attempt. Maybe I'll get a beta for my next story, for now hopefully this little fic is still enjoyable :)_

**3: Towel**

John sees Sherlock in various states of undress over the summer, but once the weather starts to chill, these occasions become less frequent.

In the span from the start of that summer to the start of winter, John has dated six different women and slept with none of them, Sherlock has "forgotten" every single one of the girls' names, and Sarah, according to her Facebook (not that John is stalking), began dating a man named Chad.

It's probably the cumulative effect of all these separate factors, then, that has John watching Sherlock layer on more and more clothing for winter and privately wishing it was still summer. He's able to dismiss these wandering fantasies of the flat somehow overheating as nothing more than pent-up sexual frustration; after all, it's not like he has anyone to talk to about these sorts of problems. Sherlock would no doubt ridicule him and certainly wouldn't understand, John can't imagine the sheer level of awkwardness that would result from pursuing such a conversation with Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson, he doesn't really have the right to come to Sarah with something like this, and anyone else John can think of – Lestrade, Molly, even Donovan – isn't exactly someone John would consider a close friend.

So John bottles it up and ignores his wayward thoughts involving Sherlock. Ignores them, at least, until one evening in December when it becomes too much to simply brush under the rug.

Considering Sherlock is always clean and well-groomed, John doesn't think he's ever actually seen him go to the bathroom to shower. John never thought much of it, assuming Sherlock always showers at absurd hours of the night or morning when no one else in their right and sober mind would be awake.

John finishes his dinner alone that evening – Sherlock wasn't around, so he decided to forego forcing his flatmate to eat – and changes into pyjamas, then enters the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Perhaps if John wasn't still so bleary and exhausted from the case he and Sherlock only just wrapped up the day before that had cost John precious hours of sleep, John might have noticed the sound of water running on the other side of the bathroom door. But at the moment, John considers himself lucky that he manages to keep his eyes open.

And if John was awake enough to notice, he might have heard the water shut off and the slide of metal-on-metal as the shower curtain slid open. But John hears none of this, and he pushes the door open and takes a full step onto the cold tile floor… and _then_ he sees Sherlock.

John freezes, jerks back slightly, and his eyebrows rise higher than he previously thought humanly possible.

"Well."

Sherlock stands just outside of the shower on the bath mat, a fluffy white towel wrapped loosely around his hips and his white porcelain skin glistening with rivulets of water. Sherlock's eyebrows go up; he instinctively secures the towel around his waist and then just stands there, dripping.

John's mind practically grinds to a halt, and the only words he can think of happen to be a lengthy list of adjectives that he doesn't think he should ever associate with his very unavailable, very _male_ flatmate. Adjectives like pleasant, enticing, appealing, and perhaps worst of all, delectable.

Sherlock looks _delectable_.

"That's just gay," John mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes at himself and exits the bathroom. "Sorry, Sherlock, should've knocked," he then says aloud, and shuts the door behind him. And that's the end of that encounter.

John sighs inwardly, because he's definitely not as straight as he used to think he was. And then he shakes his head, because this realization somehow isn't as world-shattering as he thought it would be. Probably because he's been building up to it since summer, and just because he didn't consciously acknowledge it until now, doesn't mean there isn't a part of him that knew it all along.

So this is how it happens. Not with a shocking pivotal moment, not even with a major sexual identity crisis. The knowledge that John is attracted to Sherlock sneaks up on him so unobtrusively that by the time he finally accepts it, it's not even that much of a surprise.

He doesn't try to think what he's going to do about it. He doesn't plan a course of action or speculate as to whether or not, in any alternate universe (let alone this one), he could ever stand a chance with the great Sherlock Holmes. John is not the sort to pine over the things he doesn't have. John just accepts this new fact of life, because if living with Sherlock has taught him anything, it's how to just sit back and let things happen when it's not within his power to stop them.

John imagines his life would be much easier if he never met Sherlock, but then again, it would also be much less interesting.

No longer so tired anymore, John goes to the refrigerator wondering if there's any liquor in the flat. He doesn't think he's capable of dealing with this sober. Fortunately, there are two cans of beer left from John-can't-remember-when.

Sherlock walks out after changing into his pyjamas, which, much like the rest of Sherlock's wardrobe, make John's look like cheap rags. Sherlock sees the can in John's hand and his eyebrows draw together.

"John, are you drinking?" John understands his flatmate's surprise; he lost the desire to casually drink after he drove his sister home from a different seedy pub for the tenth time before she was even legal.

"Yeah," John said, gesturing with the nearly empty can. "Just the one. It's been a long week." He gives a half-hearted attempt at a smile. It sounds like a solid excuse; their case this week involved a lot of running, chasing, and long nights.

"Alright," Sherlock says. He lingers a moment, shifts from one foot to the other. John tries not to look at Sherlock for more than a few seconds at a time.

At least now he can stop kidding himself.


	4. Curtain

**Exposure**

_A/N: I originally intended there to be more of a flowing storyline here, but it's turned into more of a set of disjointed moments strung together under a vague theme. Hopefully that's alright. Also, I thought this story was going to have a lot more humour in it. Seeing as that isn't how the story's developed, I've changed the genre from Romance & Humour to Romance & Friendship. Another Sherlock chapter, so probably some OOC-ness, but I made up for it with hints of naughtiness._

**4: Curtain**

John is nice-looking. He's nice-looking even in his horrible jumpers, and _hell_ is he nice-looking when he's got that stupid grin plastered across his face after solving a case, and he's panting and sweaty from having chased down a criminal halfway across London, and he's not thinking anything except how brilliant Sherlock is and what a great team they make.

So maybe Sherlock likes to monopolize John's thoughts. At least he's up front about it.

Probably what makes John so nice-looking is how intriguing everything about him is. Sherlock can look at him – really _look_ at him – time and time again and still keep finding new things to notice and admire. John's endless litany of expressions (Sherlock can tell the difference between the hundreds of variations of John's smiles just from looking at the corners of his mouth), the lines of his face (the ones around his mouth that mean John's happy, Sherlock likes those ones), every fleck of color in his eyes (he memorized a color chart just so he could give a name to each one). It's the little things that interest Sherlock the most, that bring out his more, well, detail-oriented (John would say "neurotic") tendencies.

Maybe Sherlock's driven a little too far over the edge, because looking at John is swiftly becoming one of Sherlock's favourite leisure activities and Sherlock has taken to finding any excuse he can to pursue it. He's honestly surprised John hasn't started complaining that Sherlock won't leave him any alone time. Then again, that's probably the sort of thing John's used to by now.

Sherlock even starts resorting to drastic measures just to look at John from different angles and under different circumstances.

One day he asks John to make him lunch, then watches John throw together sandwiches in the kitchen from his vantage point in the adjacent room. He watches John read a book, actually considers going to the Tesco just so he can watch John shopping.

Later he calls John over to where he's sitting. "John!" Sherlock yells, because he's not quite sure how near John is at the moment and he can't be bothered to look over his shoulder. "Log me into your computer, will you?"

John walks over and squints at Sherlock like he's just told him the sun is actually an enormous ball of wood set on fire. "What, you're telling me you actually can't guess my password?" He grins and shakes his head like he can't believe it. "It's not even one of my better ones." Sherlock just looks up with wide, innocent eyes, not saying a word. John shakes his head again, takes the laptop from Sherlock, and bends over the table to log in. Sherlock tilts his head to the side and doesn't even try to mask the fact that he is staring openly at John's arse. A smile creeps on to his face at how oblivious John is. Of course he knows John's password.

John hands the laptop over to Sherlock with another strange look. Sherlock blinks twice and forces his gaze back up to John's face.

"Thank you, John," he says, turning his face into the picture of innocence. John frowns and leaves the room. Sherlock watches him.

"I'm going to take a shower and go to bed," he says in that familiar tone that Sherlock now recognizes as John's way of saying, _"You're acting odd, which is to say you're acting like yourself, and I have had just about enough Sherlock for one day, thank you very much."_

Problem is, Sherlock's not quite sure he's had enough John. So he's going to do something risky, because he's Sherlock Holmes and he's bored and John is looking particularly nice today.

He waits until he hears the water running, counts slowly to ten, stands up, and walks over to the bathroom. He knocks, but doesn't wait for John to answer before opening the door.

It's clear John hasn't heard him, so Sherlock stands in the middle of the tile floor, leaning back against the sink with his hands clasped in front of him. After several long moments, he loudly clears his throat.

On the other side of the curtain, John violently swears.

"Sherlock!" he exclaims, his voice nearly a shout. Sherlock is glad that at the moment the shower curtain separates them, because if John saw the cheeky grin Sherlock's wearing he would probably punch him in the face. "There is such a thing as knocking," John reminds him.

"I knocked," Sherlock calmly says, still staring fixedly at his hands and waiting for John to (hopefully) show himself.

"You're supposed to wait for me to answer before you come barging in," John snaps.

"Honestly, John, I can't keep all these rules of social etiquette in my head. You need to start prioritising." Sherlock looks over to the shower curtain, still grinning. As if sensing Sherlock's smugness, John pulls the curtain back – finally – and glares at the detective.

"You prat," he says, clearly restraining himself from saying something worse. Sherlock's grin neither falters nor fades. John heaves a sigh, relaxing his grip on the curtain a bit. Sherlock greedily takes in John's dripping wet hair, the water streaming down his face, neck, and shoulders. Sherlock flexes his hands. His imagination was always an active one, and right now it's reeling.

"What was it you wanted, then?" John asks. Sherlock can think of plenty of answers to that question, none of which fit the context as John intended it. So instead he flashed his cocky grin and tipped his head to John in acknowledgement.

"Thanks for lunch today."

John is not impressed. He leans against the shower wall with one arm, revealing a generous portion of his chest. Sherlock digs his fingernails into his palm and gives John a brief nod. John rolls his eyes.

"Couldn't have thought of a better time for that, could you?"

Sherlock shrugs and backs out of the bathroom, raking his eyes over John one last time before closing the door.

"No John," Sherlock mutters with a sly smile when the door is firmly shut, "I couldn't have."


	5. Tea

**Exposure**

_A/N: Apologies for waxing a little poetic on this one… Sometimes I can't help myself. This one I had a hard time keeping to one POV, but I didn't fight it, because any hook-up scene by me that doesn't turn into terrible crap is enough of a blessing as is. I don't want to push my luck. Please inform me of any spelling or grammar mistakes._

**5: Tea**

John wakes up in the middle of the night. He doesn't have nightmares so often anymore – he finds that falling asleep to the sounds of violin music is soothing enough to grant him a good night's sleep – but he knows better than to try to go back to sleep straightaway after waking up from one. He pads down the stairs to the kitchen. Sherlock is sitting in the other room on John's laptop. He doesn't look up when John enters the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, so John goes about his business quietly.

John sits down to drink his tea, mulling over his thoughts, sipping slowly and staring off into the middle distance. The only sounds are Sherlock clicking and typing, and John occasionally shifting in his chair.

Even when John has finished his tea, he still doesn't feel tired enough to sleep, but at least he's calm enough to try. He stands, and so does Sherlock; John starts toward the stairs, oblivious to the soft footsteps behind him. He's halted by cool fingers wrapped around his wrist.

John turns to Sherlock, who's looking at him with an unreadable lack of expression on his face. The heel of Sherlock's palm is pressed against John's, and the pads of his fingers rest on John's pulse point. John blinks slowly, and when Sherlock doesn't make another move, John takes a subtle step closer to him.

"Sherlock," he says quietly, and he winces at how his voice sounds. Sherlock's expression is still blank, though, so maybe he didn't notice. He seems focused on their point of connection, where their skin is touching. John lowers his eyes to Sherlock's hand, which glows near white in the calm darkness and moonlight filtered in from the windows.

After several slow moments, Sherlock lifts his gaze to meet John's. There's something surprisingly emotional in his eyes that John hasn't seen before, and John gets the sense that everything between the two of them has changed but neither of them realized it till now.

John takes another half-step closer to Sherlock. The calm and quiet is interrupted by the off-beat, staccato rhythms of their hearts.

Sherlock's eyes slide closed, and he lowers his head slightly. John takes a full step into Sherlock's space until their toes are nearly touching and the space between their bodies consists of barely a breath of air. John's eyelids lower. He angles his head up.

Their lips are practically touching when John feels Sherlock's mouth stretch into a smile. John's eyes open halfway and he sees Sherlock gazing languidly down at him with a hint of amusement in his eyes. John quirks an eyebrow, and Sherlock shakes his head, his ebony curls brushing against John's forehead, and chuckles, barely a hitched exhalation of air on John's face.

"What?" John asks, only a little perturbed. He's used to Sherlock acting strange that by now it's nearly impossible to faze him.

"Nothing." Sherlock's hand slides up John's arm beneath the loose cotton sleeve of John's pyjamas.

The kiss is passionate from the start. Sherlock's mouth is hot and wet on John's. His hand tightens on John's shoulder, and John buries both his hands in Sherlock's hair, something he's wanted to do for longer than he would care to admit.

John tugs Sherlock nearer to him, deepening the kiss, parting Sherlock's pliable mouth and tilting his head. Sherlock emits a low, quiet groan and shoves John up against the nearest wall, wrenching his mouth away from John's in an effort to leave possessive marks all over John's neck and shoulders. When John's pyjama shirt gets in the way, Sherlock's nimble fingers deftly undo the line of buttons and toss it impatiently out of the way. John shies away for a moment, but Sherlock will have none of that; the detective stops John with a hand on his chest and a barely noticeable shake of his head. John isn't in any place to disagree with this unspoken statement.

"Come… here," Sherlock impetuously orders, seemingly frustrated. He drags John by the wrist into his bedroom and shuts the door behind them. His expression is one of hard determination, but his eyes are dark with lust. John notices this and grins, moving to slip his hands around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him, but he's smirking in a way that is very encouraging. He removes his shirt, slowly, torturously, and downright seductively, before slinking up to John with the grace of a snake.

Sherlock lets his eyes flutter closed – leans back so his neck (white and sculpted like a Greek statue) is bared and his hips dig deliciously into John's – and breathes in deeply. John takes a deep breath as well; this is getting ridiculous.

"Are you planning on torturing me like this much longer?" John asks with feigned nonchalance. Sherlock grins down at him and runs his tongue over his teeth.

"As long as I please," Sherlock says. "Getting impatient, are we?"

John laughs, a deep rumble in his chest that he's sure Sherlock can feel. "Very," he says.

Catching Sherlock by surprise, John shoves him toward the bed and practically pounces on him. Sherlock's eyes are wide; he looks impressed. It's an unfamiliar look on him. John decides he likes it.

"How about this time, _I_ do as _I_ please?" John suggests.

Sherlock fights a smile and pretends to consider this, tilting his head and pursing his lips. "I suppose you can have it your way," he eventually says with a twinkle in his eye. "Just this onnnnngh…" Sherlock is interrupted – something he normally detests, but this time it's alright – by John's mouth on his and John's hands on his trousers. He gasps when John then does something particularly delicious and moans when he keeps doing it, a pattern that continues for several hours in a colourful variety of ways, and for once Sherlock doesn't regret relinquishing some of his control.

He'll get John back for it tomorrow, though, surely.


	6. Phone

**Exposure**

_A/N: This is it. This is the end. I've started another short Johnlock story (structured somewhat like this one) but it's kind of slow going, since I'm also working on some other stuff. I do, however, need a beta reader. Anyone know someone who's interested? Thanks! Sorry for this chapter taking so long, I wrote it once, hated what I wrote, and had to completely rewrite it. Which is also why it's so short._

**6: Phone**

Sherlock wakes, feels something warm, and curls into it with a sleepy smile. His lazy mind realises it's John, and he flings an arm over John's chest and breathes out a warm breath that tickles the skin on the back of John's neck.

They remain this way for a while, before Sherlock grows restless. He shifts, reaches for his phone on the nightstand. There's a text from Lestrade. Sherlock reads it and sighs with annoyance.

Sherlock rolls over and begins to get up, when John groans in protest.

"Let's not get up." John's voice is muffled by the pillow he has buried his face in. Sherlock nevertheless stands, resisting John's hand that reaches blindly for him as he feels Sherlock's weight shift off the bed.

"Sorry, John," Sherlock says, leaning over the bed, "I've got to." He lays a hand on John's arm, and John turns over, forcing his eyes open, and is glad he's done so, because he's greeted by the sight of Sherlock leaning over him, looking uncharacteristically ruffled (and John grins, because he knows exactly why). His hair is an absolute mess of dark curls, and John realises he must be in a similar state of disarray. Of course, even after a night with little sleep and several… _vigourous_ activities, Sherlock still looks as – John tries to think of a better word, but comes up flat – sexy as always, probably because he isn't wearing a single scrap of anything and that's exactly how John likes it.

Something about the moonlight last night made Sherlock look like one of those Greek statues carved out of stark white marble or something; John was sure his original thought was far more poetic than that (John? Poetic? Perhaps not…) but now his mind is jumbled from all that shagging and distracted by the fact that he would quite like to jumble himself up a bit more. He's got months' worth of fantasies to get started on, after all.

So needless to say John is not at all willing to just let Sherlock _leave_ like that. "What could possibly be more important than lying in bed all morning?" John asks, and maybe he lets the covers slip down a little when he notices Sherlock's gaze drifting in a southerly direction.

"Lestrade texted," Sherlock says, holding up the phone as evidence. John rolls his eyes, takes the phone (he's met with little resistance from Sherlock, which probably shows how little Sherlock truly wants to leave the flat at this particular moment).

"Lestrade can wait," John said. He then sets Sherlock's phone aside, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and yanking him back down onto the bed. "I've got something even more interesting than a case that you can focus on," he says with a smirk. Sherlock looks positively wicked at this.

"Oh?" he says in that deliciously low voice. "And what's that?"

"Let's call it an experiment," John says, and, well, this has Sherlock utterly captivated.

"Seriously, though, John," Sherlock mutters against John's mouth a few moments later, "Later today—mmph—we go to Scotland Yard—angh—and help with the investigation—_nnghh_."

John rolls his eyes and bucks his hips, thoroughly distracting Sherlock. Soon they'll be back to focusing on "the work."

Soon. But not just yet.


End file.
